


Staring

by antheeia



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Avileroweek, But here you go, Death, Drabble, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV First Person, Prompt Fill, Vague mentions of sex, and in no way original, just something depressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 22:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10545350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/antheeia
Summary: A quick drabble for avileroweek, day 2, "Last Times".





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in basically 3 hours which might seem a lot but it's really really quick for my standards.
> 
> I don't really like it but I also won't allow myself not to fill at least a couple of the avileroweek's prompts, so here you go.

His lips were chapped and swollen, red and almost desperately hungry for my kisses. His skin was pale, soft, and it burned under my callous fingers.

I had learnt by heart every little detail about his body, counted the knobs of his spine, caressed and held his slender wrists, kissed every single ones of his little moles — he had two on his back that just stood out against his pale skin, like two lone stars in a sky of the wrong colour — I breathed his delicate scent — my nose buried in his hair, thirsty and longing like I somehow always knew I couldn’t have smelled it for long.

He had an old scar on his right knee, and tiny lighter spots in his eyes, near the pupils; when his breathing became fast and irregular he tried to silence it, and when he blushed he turned his head and hid his face under his fringe.

I knew all those small things about him, and even though he felt familiar, he still felt new somehow; like there was always something else to find out.

It felt comforting, even then, even when that sensation in my stomach told me that there was something wrong, so _deeply wrong_ , with the way his movements were less yielding and more hurried, with the way my heart skipped a beat and sank in my stomach and a knot of tears thickened in my throat, with the way he screamed at me and I screamed at him and he cried and I just couldn’t feel anger anymore.

His body always made him look so young, but the darkness he buried in the pool of his eyes never let his malicious and defying gaze look even remotely playful. But that night it was different, that night his eyes were empty, void of everything but despair.

Not even lust, not even anger, not even sadness.

 _Just an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness_.

And I kissed him, I kissed him and I tried to forget, to lose my memories of all that mess into his mouth, to exchange the suffering for all the moments I wanted to cherish.

But I couldn’t forget and it’s even harder to now that his lips are pale and still, just barely open — it’s like he’s about to take a breath, to speak and say something, but I know he won’t, I know he can’t, I know that the voice I imagined, the sound of that rasped breathing I think I’m hearing is nothing but the product of my desperate mind.

Just some hours ago I was brushing my fingers through his black locks, holding him close, his body feeling even more delicate, and his warmth so precious I couldn't allow it to go to waste. I laid by his side and I held him until he fell asleep, and I could swear that for a moment there we managed to feel at peace.

But those same hands that held him close, that touched him, caressed him, he wanted those hands to be the ones who ended him.

Those same hands that are now shaking, but still stubbornly holding that pale body, skin cold like the wind blowing on this beach, like the blood my heart keeps stubbornly pumping into my veins.

I pass my fingers through his hair again, and just some hours ago he would have moved his head, annoyed. He feels heavy now, or maybe it’s just that I can’t bear to hold his body a second more. His empty eyes stare right through me, and I realise I’ve been staring at them for so long that I almost stopped noticing how strange they look now that the life in them is gone.

I pass my hand on his face and I close them.

My palm strokes his cheek gently and just now it strikes me how this is the last time I touch him, how there’s nothing more of him to know, to see, to feel, except those memories flashing before my eyes and the ghost of my guilt hunting me down while wearing his face.

So I step back, away from him, and I close my eyes as well and I pretend, just for a second, that I can’t smell the blood's stench on my clothes and his own, that the cold I feel is just caused by the wintry air, that the whispering of the wind really is his voice.

It almost sounds like a “Thank you”.


End file.
